Clock-O’-clay
Sun 4.30.23
The buildings facing me across the street where I lived on the Upper East Side of Manhattan were all elegant brownstones, except for Bob's house. I call him Bob because he looked like my brother Bob, but I didn't know the man, had never spoken to him. Yet there was a connection between us. Whenever he saw me in the street, he would be taken aback. At first, he would turn his back when he saw me coming. Later he looked but gave no sense of acknowledgment. It was a connection that would never be explored.
On the morning after my deal for a desired apartment fell through with my household all packed up ready to go, I met him on the street; I didn't recognize him at first, but his overlong eye contact and vague familiarity caused me to greet him (to which he did not respond) as someone I obviously knew in some undetermined manner. After I walked away from him and realized who he was, it occurred to me that my work was not completed in this neighborhood. Perhaps there was something I hadn't resolved, or understood yet.
My view out the window sitting on my sofa was of Bob's house. It was at some time in the past, a brownstone which he covered with bricks in a prosaic pattern. His property is enclosed with a high wrought iron fence whose bars are topped with golden spikes. The house's first level has a front entrance on the left, and a garage to the side of it (yes, the only private garage on the block). On the second story is a narrow balcony encircled by a small golden spiked wrought iron fence similar to the street level one below. Asphalt lions at each end light up at evening.
Bob, who I would say was probably in his mid-forties, had brown hair which was being overtaken by grey, dressed like an old geezer in faded army green, shapeless tee shirts covering his belly and baggy jeans. The man seemed lifeless; the face was empty. He was out on the street every day fussing about his house, sweeping, hosing, polishing, checking the fences, seeing to workmen painting the yellow warning stripes advising others not to park in front of his garage, directing his wife driving the car out past the fence. At Christmas, he had the biggest light show in the hood, not the most tasteful. Busy, busy, there was always something to be done out there.
I watched him one morning as I sipped my coffee checking over his wrought iron fence; was it chipped? He moved along the bars looking them over. Obviously rich, and able to turn his back on the work-a-day world. This devotion to his house, this busy work, is what had become paramount in his life. Considering the lack of care with which he chose to present himself to the world, I found it bizarre, obsessive. It's not as if he were creating an artwork, and I doubt that he would be so caring and attentive if he merely leased the building.
Bob, oh Bob, do something with your life; start an affair; travel abroad; spend your money foolishly. There's more to life than your house!
Bob reminds me of a poem I read in grad school by the eighteenth century poet John Clare, which I think is one of the saddest poems I've ever read. A little bit about Clare: he was born of peasants, roughly educated (he could read and write), was herding animals at the age of 7. In his teens, he stumbled upon a book of poems and flowered, going on to write poems of his own.
That his first love abandoned him, was a blow he never got over. But he married, got his poems published to acclaim. A dozen years later, his work fell out of favor with his publisher who was forcing him to change his style, become more current. And he was having financial worries. The pressures overwhelmed him and he was sent to an asylum which he at first escaped and went home expecting that his first love was there waiting. He was sent back to the asylum where he spent the rest of his life. His best poems were written during his incarceration.
The poem's title Clock-O'-Clay, is the name of an old English wild flower.
Clock-O'-Clay
In the cowslip pips I lie,
Hidden from the buzzing fly,
While green grass beneath me lies,
Pearled with dew like fishes' eyes,
Here I lie, a clock-o'-clay,
Waiting for the time o' day.
While the forest quakes surprise,
And the wild wind sobs and sighs,
My home rocks as like to fall,
On its pillar green and tall;
When the pattering rain drives by
Clock-o'-clay keeps warm and dry.
Day by day and night by night,
All the week I hide from sight;
In the cowslip pips I lie,
In the rain still warm and dry;
Day and night and night and day,
Red, black-spotted clock-o'-clay.
My home shakes in wind and showers,
Pale green pillar topped with flowers,
Bending at the wild wind's breath,
Till I touch the grass beneath;
Here I live, lone clock-o'-clay,
Watching for the time of day.
The trap of life, how one becomes grounded to the soil, the asylum, one's home, held tight, a captive of one's ground. Safety becomes the girdle that envelops, protects and ultimately suffocates.
MANHATTAN SEERESS NOW ON EBOOKS
Eight o'clock Sunday morning, the police arrive at her apartment in Greenwich Village, "How long have you been living here?" The roommate Elizabeth, after having accepted her half of the deposit money and rent for their new apartment, has called the police.
New York City doesn’t open its arms to welcome her, but she’s arrived and the adventure of her life is about to unfold. She’s come from Maine with an invitation from Sarah Lawrence College to participate in the graduate writing program.
How one becomes a seeress is what this memoir explores. Stories have been specifically selected to illustrate, from the sublime to the practical, a spiritual journey introduced in each chapter by an atout, the Tarot’s major archetypes. From the Fool, to The World, our human journey with its risk and folly unfolds. There is also an artist here alive to her new world seeking inspiration among artists on the Lower East side, learning the ways and foods of her Chinese neighbors, falling in love.
